


Tree

by Nekoian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 06:16:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6362845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Llewellyn discovers that buying a tree at Christmas can turn into something interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/gifts), [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> I hope this is okay and not too unusual. It's an AU based on the mixed works of myself and Moonlighten. I only post this from too much pride in good feedback from my writing coach and hope you enjoy it. Not sure I'll carry it on proper as I've lost about a third thanks to computer issues. Hope everyone is well. Late Christmas gift to all!

By the time Llewellyn pulls into the gravel yard, the car has heated to a snug warmth that had been reluctant to catch in this bleak weather. Darkness is already eating the scenery, despite the sky being orange and grey with the setting sun a solid hour since they left the house. 

“You must try and keep your hat and gloves on.” Llewellyn tells his nephew with a mournful smile, “you lost your scarf already today.” 

Oliver glares defiantly at his mittens, secured by a cord run through his sleeves. His fat fingers need help wriggling inside them, small hands turning the reindeer faces into puppets, “I ha’e glavs.” Oliver whines, small shrill voice tinged with the inflections of a Scottish accent. “I cannae feel nuffin!” 

“We’ll be home soon.” Llewellyn pops the much-reviled hat over Olivers thick red curls and tries not to laugh at the antlers that poke up from the top, or the way the flaps look like floppy ears, “and look, I’ll wear my silly hat too.” Llewellyn pulls the large white hat on, hoping the polar bear face is properly aligned. 

“And the glavs!” Oliver throws himself through the gap in the front seats, little legs kicking for purchase until Llewellyn plucks him up and rights him. 

Oliver holds out the gloves, pushing them into Llewellyn’s hands in a fit of perceived fairness that one simply cannot argue with when it comes to the young. The garments have silly pink paw pads on them, small claws capping the half fingers. –Llewellyn has perfectly serviceable brown and purple ones on already, but slips the fluffy ones over them.- 

“Alright. We’ll both look cute.” Llewellyn promises, throwing the door open and noting the layer of crisp white frost already forming on the stones under his boots. 

Oliver slams the door once he’s out of it and runs without care of slipping toward the blinking lights around the small collection of Christmas trees wrapped up in nets, with one sickly looking example scattered with tinsel and baubles. 

“Oli! Take my hand or you’ll fall.” Llewellyn holds the little hand tight when he eventually gets a hold of it, thankful for the warmth of his gloves and scarf. Their noses are already a bright Rudolf red. 

“How come wer buying a’tree, Unca Llew?” Oliver asks, gripping the limp looking tree by a branch as though to shake hands. The movement shakes an ornament loose, which he plucks up and studies with interest. 

“Because I have a nice new house for everyone to visit, and you’re not allowed to live in a house that’s not got a carpet coated in pine needles,” Llewellyn grins, the cold air almost hurts his teeth, “It’s the LAW.” 

Oliver’s mouth purses in wonder at this new wisdom, a deep exhale sending a puff of warm breath into the night; content that the world makes a little more sense, “Cannae’a pick which one?” 

“Of course, though not too big. Your father has a saw in the boot, I don’t think we should give him an excuse to use it.” Llewellyn leans down to study the pilfered ornament in Oliver’s hands, a battered felt Santa holding a candycane, or perhaps a walking stick. A bell tips his little red hat, curiously it fails to ring when Oliver shakes it. “You must put that back,” Llewellyn tries to sound curt, “it’s not ours.” 

Oliver, apparently newly smitten with the tattered Santa now that he’s forced to part with it, lets out a whine of disappointment. 

“He can keep it,” A crunch of footfalls approach them, a man wearing a jumper with a strange pattern on it; it’s either a smokers bong surrounded by a haze of smoke or a candlestick with a bright glow. His wide girth approaches them, frame almost as orb like as a bauble, brown curls long, flowing into a beard that shows off his radiant smile, “are you here to purchase a tree? I’m in charge for the night.” 

“Yes,” Llewellyn studies the scarf, and gloves the man wears –poorly shaped, their hue a blend of ugly vomit colours- and his hat is a lop sided red and white one with a large pompom The only thing he’s wearing that doesn’t appear handmade by Satan himself. Llewellyn startles from his prolonged silence, “I just moved.” 

“And it’s the law!” Oliver wiggles his arms as a grim reminder. 

Unwilling to quietly correct the youngster now the lie has taken hold, Llewellyn smiles to the clerk, who accepts the confusion within a beat and nods, kneeling to talk to the toddler on an equal level. “Well, you’re lucky you came here, we have trees within the government's specifications.” He looks back up to Llewellyn, the light from his tiny shack showing off a flurry of freckles that match the snowflakes that now start to drift down from the clouds, “we throw in a skirt for around the bottom. My brother’s idea. But a good one.” 

“Sounds lovely. A tree wearing a skirt sounds very pretty, doesn’t it, Oli?”

“it’s callt a KILT.” Oliver snaps, his nose getting stuck into the air with all the petulance his younger age gives him. 

The man stands back up and laughs merrily, the sound of a dozen little birds waking up and embracing the day, or a string of bells on the neck of a reindeer. 

Llewellyn swallows hard, feeling a stir of unwanted emotion at the way the man's plump belly sways when he laughs, his eyes wrinkled at their edges, like the fine lines of an angel freshly made on a bed of soft snow. 

Oliver steps forward and tugs the hem of the man's jumper, staring at him with the same wonder Llewellyn is feeling. ‘Are you Sandy Cause?” Oliver asks, not even a hint of hesitation. 

The man blinks down at him, clearly taken aback at the comparison. 

Llewellyn kneels and wraps his arms around his nephews chubby waist to coax him away, “No, no, you know Santa has a big white beard and wears a red suit.” 

“Only on Chrimis eve!” Oliver tuts, “And Sanny could have a brown beard, nobody ever met him. That’s just speckl-spooka-what people think! I bet he’s really young like you!” 

“Er, well.” Llewellyn was never good at arguing with his nephew. 

The man studies them with cautious eyes before getting down on his haunches, “Do you want to know a secret, Oliver.” The man leans closer and whispers to them, “I am Santa. This is my job before Christmas. Got to make sure everyone follows the tree law after all.” 

Llewellyn stares at the round, lovely face of the man, his face blotted red from the cold, his snub nose and soft eyes. He almost could be Santa Claus. 

“I knew it.” Oliver whispers. “Did you get my letter? I was really good this year---sort of. I even ate all my tomatoes in Uncle Llewlans salad and I hate those.” 

“Well, I’ll keep a note of it.” The man grins, “You’ll take good care of that ornament won’t you?” 

“Aye!” 

“Then I’ll make sure to check my list again and make sure you’re on the good one,” He pats Oliver’s head and stands, “Now, how about we go find you a tree? What size did you need?” 

“Not too big,” Llewellyn steps forward, thankful for the goodwill. “Five feet maybe? I don’t have many ornaments.

“I’ll show you our best ones.” The man, who might be Santa, guides them towards his stockpile of trees, all wrapped in nets, or out on display. The snow falls. 

Llewellyn thinks he might continue buying real trees from now on. 

\--

Once the tree is picked out, they work together to haul the cumbersome pine towards the car, throwing open the boot as they murmur swears at the tree for having spiky needles and unexpected weight. 

“My brother Alasdair makes it look’s so easy.” The clerk says with a tired, toothy grin, “he got the brain AND the brawn, he’s a shit.” 

“Well, you got the good looks.” Llewellyn shrugs, hoping to sound polite, yet aware of his fraying nerves. “Oliver, don’t climb in the boot, you’ll suffocate!” The toddler is quickly plucked out and ordered to, “go sit in the front seat like a good boy, mind not to drag dirt over the floor.” 

“Kay!” Oliver sprints away –more of a lively waddle, really- clambering in like a little mountain climber. 

“So, when does your shift end? It can’t be pleasant out here in this weather.” 

“Till ten. Though I imagine you’ll be the last one coming out. The weather keeps sane folk indoors.” The man’s face writhes belatedly with horror, “Not that I think you’re crazy. I prefer doing things when it’s quiet too, not heaving like it is earlier in the day.” 

Llewellyn bites back a laugh, “Honestly; I’m just out because I needed petrol and food for my nephew. He’s eaten my bland cooking all weekend now, poor thing, I thought I’d treat him to chicken nuggets and chips. His choice, not mine.” 

“Sounds lovely, I fancy the same now.” The man, still unnamed, claps his hands together, “Well, let's get this tree in so you can get home and warmed up.” 

They struggle with the awkward load again, until the realisation hits them at the same moment. 

It’s far too big for the little ka to handle. The car appears almost fox-like with the spiked spray of branches poking out the rear. 

“Oh dear, I suppose I’ll have to find something smaller.” Llewellyn frowns at the distance they had to move it. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking.” 

“No problem! We have a van, we deliver trees to folk all the time!” The man promises, waggling his arms. “We’ll take your payment when it arrives, so you know we can’t run off with it.” 

“Are you sure, that sounds like a lot of work for you. I don’t want to—“ 

“Hardly work at all,” A self-assured grin, “your Nephew picked this one out for you, so, it’d be a shame to change it. If I can get your address and phone number, then we’ll call when we’re heading round.” 

“Oh, of course. But if anything comes up don’t worry. I can wait.” Llewellyn nips at his increasingly chapped lip, a finger curling at long hair, “I don’t have a pen or paper handy so—“

The unnamed man digs out his phone, pokes with it and hands it over. “You can write it with this, I think Art pinched my notepad.” 

Llewellyn accepts the phone, unsure if he should be suspicious of the old battered phone, a small welsh dragon dangles from the lanyard hook. The relevant information is typed into the phone and handed back. “My brother will be back soon with his wife,” He says; apparently for his own peace of mind. 

“Perfect. I’ll set this tree aside till then.” 

They coax the tree out and drag it towards the hut which is decked half-heartedly with strips of tinsel. 

“Where do you get all these trees from by the way?” 

“There’s a ton of trees that grow outside our family home, so we chop some down and sell them. Not very exciting but it pays for Christmas dinner.” 

“I see.” Llewellyn nods distractedly as he studies the little hut, more of a shed really. “It sounds like fun. Anyway, I really need to get going, thank you for your help, Mr…” 

“Kirkland. Dylan Kirkland.” The man thrusts out his hand and shakes a late greeting. “It’s been a pleasure, Llewlan.” 

Llewellyn hides a snort with his hand and clears his throat, “Llewellyn Walsh. My nephew hasn’t quite mastered his words yet.” 

Dylan’s shoulders tense, “I’m so sorry, it’s a beautiful name. My mother wanted to call my brother Llewellyn, though our grandfather said we had enough Welsh in the family already; so he became Arthur, which is a Welsh name, she did to spite him I think. He really deserv--” Dylan bites visibly on his tongue, “I’ll let you head on before the cold weather settles in for the night. The little one will be wanting his tea I imagine.” 

Llewellyn smiles at the thoughtfulness and waves a goodbye. “Thank you for your help, stay warm.” 

\--

The kitchen is full of delicious smells from the oven, a comfort when Llewellyn gazes out at the wide yard now glistening with frost, he can only hope better weather will yield some flowers. It is a beautiful, large plot of land, with a small deck, raised planters and an apple tree that will presumably bear fruit at some point or another. Right now it’s as wind tousled and miserable as anything else in the street of sizable houses; and just as quiet, only the wind now, no more shouting, slamming or loud music. Thank goodness.

Llewellyn is glad he invested in this house. Large for one, perhaps, but the kind of place that eases the anxiety of the world rather than trapping you inside with it; and soon it will be all the nicer, with his first Christmas tree and his family. 

Closing the blinds help Llewellyn stop residing in his own head, turning his attention to the oven, where the chicken and chips cook merrily away, they look delicious in their childish simplicity. 

Oliver scampers in, bare feet padding along the tiles without care of the chill, his pyjamas are badly rumpled, distorting the sheep that run patterns over his ‘See EWE in dreamland!’ top. “Uncle Llew, can we watch the dinasaurs t’night? Please?” Oliver bumps into Llewellyn’s leg thanks to his boundless, clumsy energy. 

“You’ve seen Walking with Dinosaurs a million times, Oli.” Llewellyn crouches to amend the pyjamas the best he can, “but if you promise to eat all your tea then you can stay up and watch it, alright?” 

“I was gonna eat it anyway.” Oliver rubs his tummy, “I’m so hungry I could eat a whole tr’ceratops!” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Llewellyn frowns at him, “now, go put something on your feet.”

“Don’t want to.” Oliver snaps with immature ferocity.

“Do I need to tell Santa you’re being naughty? Good boys keep their feet warm.” Llewellyn scolds, watching the struggle between impertinence and the desire to receive his present’s wage war in Oliver’s tiny head. Eventually he sighs and runs off, hopefully, to get his slippers on. 

Just as he goes to open the oven door his phone goes off, he has to whirl to locate it, answering with a heavy breath of, “Hello?”

“Hi, Llewellyn? It’s Dylan,” The voice says, sounding nervous, and cracked by the movement of a van, “We decided to lock up early so is now okay to drop by for the delivery?” 

Another voice, much deeper and lined with mild irritation adds, “We don’t even do deliveries.” Very quietly. 

“Yes we do!” Dylan insists, “anyway, give us five minutes? We’re on your road but it’s a little icy.” 

“Please be careful, I’ll keep an eye out for you.” Llewellyn gives a quick goodbye, switches the oven to low and slips into the hall to monitor the road, snow is starting to fall thick on the ground now, threatening harsher weather. 

Eventually, a sickly looking white van stops at the end of the drive, prompting Llewellyn into unlocking the door and venturing out. The cold hits him like the kick of a mule. His throat begins to ache. 

Dylan meets him half way, hands deep in pockets, “Sorry if we interrupted. With the weather like it is it seemed smart to close up.” 

“I didn’t even notice it get this heavy. Are you going to be alright driving home?” 

Dylan nods, looking over his shoulder to where another man is getting out of the van, he’s taller and broader. The sort of handsomeness that most are drawn to, although a moody scowl does ruin his good looks as he drags the tree out from the back and lugs it towards them. 

“Where you want this?” He asks, glaring at Dylan. 

“Just at the door is fine. Really, don’t worry about it too much, we can move it later.” 

The man complies, pausing breathe into his curled up hands and look up at the house once he’s set the tree against the wall. 

“Your house is beautiful. It’s not what I expected.” Dylan shields his eyes from the falling snow to gaze at the tall white walls and the few strings of lights Llewellyn has managed to get up. “Have you lived here long?” 

“Dylan, we really need to—“ 

“No, about a month, maybe two.” Llewellyn frowns at the sky, “Would you two like to come in for some tea until the weather lets up? It’s only polite. Especially at Christmas time.” 

“We’d LOVE to.” Dylan blocks his companion from declining, “I’m sure the snow will pass soon, and Arthur IS at home so there’s no rush. Right, Alasdair?” 

Alasdair, the brother if Llewellyn recalls, sighs and nods, “Not too long though. I’m pretty sure a board or two will fall off the wall if the wind gets at it.” 

The sound of guests lures Oliver out of the spare room and down the stairs, his socks almost falling off his feet, hands lightly grasping a plastic dinosaur. He lets out a little gasp, diving into the kitchen like a kitten chasing a toy mouse. 

“Cute kid,” Alasdair says with a monotone voice as he rubs his hands together for warmth, “Yours?” 

“He’s my nephew, I’m sorry he seems to have come over all shy.” 

Oliver jogs up to them with a box of sugar cookies he’d made with his mother the night before, pushing the Tupperware firmly into Dylans hands. “Me and Mama made this fer you Sanda,” Oliver proclaims proudly. “I only ate one, I promise. I decorated them myself. It’s reindeer!” 

Alasdair’s eyebrows rise, trailing from the miniature human being at his brothers feet, towards Dylan, he opens his mouth to make light of the mix up, but is stopped by a firm, yet discreet, shake from Dylan’s head. 

“I can’t take them before Christmas eve. Otherwise I’ll get hungry when I leave.” Dylan says, offering the box back to reluctant hands. “But they look lovely. I hope you let your Mummy have one too.” 

“She didn’t want one. She made her own gimerbred. I ate one of those too.” 

“Come on Oli,” Llewellyn gives his nephew a nudge. “I’ll get you your dinner and you can watch TV while you eat. Let Santa and his brother have a mug of tea in peace. They’re busy delivering all the trees and need warming up.” 

Olivers head turns towards Alasdair for the first time, “Sanda has a brother? He doesn’t LOOK like a Sanda.” 

Alasdair, still straight-faced, replies, “I’m an elf.” 

The wonder that shines in Oliver’s eyes is the kind Llewellyn thinks he’ll remember forever, the toddler opens the Tupperware box, extracts a heavily iced biscuit and holds it up to Alasdair. “Thank you for making toys. I like the dinosaurs and Pokémon best.” Then he sets the box defiantly on the floor and sets off in search of his dinner. 

Llewellyn sends him off with a plate of warm food –and entirely too much ketchup- preparing tea while his guests warm themselves in the kitchen, with a small plate of the nuggets and chips to share between them and a single sugar cookie each. 

Llewellyn knows he shouldn’t trust strangers, yet he feels nothing but warmth from their presence. They talk very little, but communicate silently between themselves via a series of glances, twitching eyebrows and head tilts. 

“We might start actually doing deliveries if this is what it’s like.” Alasdair drains his mug and polishes off a chicken nugget. “Tah, for the food. I doubt Art has anything on the go for us.” 

“I’m sorry you came all this way when you don’t normally drop the trees off.” Llewellyn nips his lip, wondering why Dylan would lie about it, “What do I owe you?” 

“Thirt-“ 

“Fifteen is fine!” Dylan blurts,” clasping Llewellyn’s hand without thinking, “that’s the price. Every year.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll have to visit next Christmas too.” Llewellyn chuckles. “But I really don’t mind paying full price.” He hunts through his wallet and offers them Forty. “You said this went towards your Christmas meal. So it’s only right I give you what I can.” 

Dylan accepts after a thoughtful silence, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” 

The idea of taking advantage of Dylan’s good nature makes Llewellyn’s chest knot. “I owe you for the petrol, regardless.” 

Dylan hands his brother the money then clears his throat to say something when the front door is opened and heavy footsteps thud against the wooden floorboards. They startle the brothers’ eyes wide until Oliver’s voice calls out gleefully, “Da!” 

“Alright, wee man?” Angus’ deep voice fills the house, the sound of him lifting his son and squeezing him tight, “Hey Llew, you home? Some wanker is blocking your driveway!” 

Llewellyn feels his face heat up in embarrassment. “Yes, I know. It’s just the Christmas tree delivery,” he calls. “They’re waiting out the snow with me.” 

Angus enters the room, dipping his head to pass under the door. His fiery hair and beard are flecked with snow, his hands currently toddler free. “Ah, right. Well, the weather report says it’s only to get worse.” Angus eyes them up, he seems to deem them acceptable, refilling the kettle. “Lads.” He greets without a second look.

The brothers gargle a response, clearly unprepared for the sheer size of Llewellyn’s elder brother. 

Alasdair offers his hand for a shake, regaining his nerve and grinning, “Alright mate?”

“Angus, this is Alasdair and Dylan. They kindly brought the tree for me. It didn’t fit in the car.” 

“I told him it wouldn’t,” Angus tells them, nodding his thanks for the favour, then he falls comfortably silent as he begins to fill two mugs, one with tea, the other with coffee. 

Not long after the sound of high heels trotting into the hall signals the arrival of Angus’ wife, a chorus of laughing and cooing as Oliver greets her. 

She strides into the room with him in her arms, blinking in surprise at the unexpected company, “Bonjour,” She says, her long blonde hair hasn’t a curl out of place, her short dress and tights are as perfect as though she’d never stepped into the bad weather at all. 

“Mama, Mama, That’s Santa Claus and his elf! Dy’an and Ass Star.” 

“So it is.” Her French accent is full of good humour, “I hope you were polite to them.” 

“Aye.” Oliver’s accent shifts slightly, a Frenchness running into it now he’s in his mother's arms. “I gave them the biscuits we made.” 

“Good boy. Now, run along and finish your dinner. I’ll be with you in a little while, mon poussin.” She plants a few kisses to his laughing cheeks before setting him down to attend to his own business. She turns to the men and eyes them up. 

“Alaina, these are the men who delivered my Christmas tree. Dylan, Alasdair, this is my brother Angus and his wife Alaina.” Llewellyn turns his attention to them. “How was your trip? Were the roads okay?” 

“Icy, but not so bad.” Alaina sighs happily into her mug, “It was nice to see my students before the holidays.” 

“You’re a teacher?” Dylan asks quietly. 

“Tutor,” Alaina corrects, “I teach Geology and earth sciences at the university of Edinburgh.” She grips Angus’ arm, “Mon canard is a Geochemist.” 

Alasdair’s eyebrows rise, “You wouldn’t happen to know a man named Francis Bonnefois?” his words seem self-driven. 

A blank stare is all Alaina can summon, “Never heard of a man by that name, pour quoi?” 

“No reason, you just look like him, uncanny really.” Alasdair murmurs under his breath, clearing his throat, “Well, I think we’ve intruded long enough, Dyl, let's leave these poor people alone.”

“Yes, of course. It was a pleasure meeting you all.” Dylan says, following his brother’s lead, yet pausing near Llewellyn’s side, his fingers twirling at his beard. Indecision makes him twitch until he turns and digs a slip of paper from his pocket, “if you ever need another tree or something like that, this is my---our---number; If you need it. You probably won’t but you never know. Thank you again. Have a merry Christmas and all that.” 

Llewellyn can’t help staring into Dylan’s eyes, he wonders if he’s reading too much into it, “You too. Thank you. I’ll keep it handy.” His throat closes over, the words, “you can call me if you need to as well.” Dripping from his mouth unintentionally. “I’ll walk you both to the van.” 

Oliver offers them a happy farewell as they go and they part ways with a wave. 

The van eventually vanishes and Llewellyn wonders if he should make an excuse to call. He won’t, he scolds himself. There’s no need to bother the man. He was likely just being polite. He’s likely got a girlfriend, not that that matters either way. You can’t just call somebody for no reason; even if they are very, very cute. 

\--


End file.
